Sat Mar 23, 2024 11:33 pm by globalturbo
Guest Post…
Posted on April 4, 2013 by Visionkeeper
http://www.favim.com
Tying Flies
Written by: Raven
“Well, I finally did it,” the voice said.
I
looked up from my weeding. My neighbor Clark leaned against my garden
fence, his forearm crushing its cloak of fragrant sweet pea vines.
“What did you do now?” I asked, brushing the dirt off my hands.
“Quit. Retired for good.”
“Really,”
I deadpanned. Like we hadn’t talked about this before. Like this wasn’t
the major topic of every conversation we’d had for the past three
years.
“Yep. Told the boss yesterday.”
“Did you now,” I said, bending back to my dandelions to hide my smile.
For
as long as I’d known him, Clark had been dreaming of the day he could
wake up in the morning and think about nothing but trout. Rainbow trout,
cutthroat, bull trout… it didn’t matter, as long as he could catch
them. Clark and I have been neighbors forever and as far as I could tell
all he had ever cared about was fishing.
“So
what are you going to do with all your free time?” I asked, still
hiding a smile. When he didn’t answer right away, I looked up. He was
holding a thin wooden box, about a foot square, obviously hoping I would
get up off my crabby old knees and come look at it, so I did. His
gnarled fingers struggled with the small brass clip holding the lid.
The wood groaned sorrowfully as he opened the box. I peered inside. Each
cubbyhole held one tiny hand-tied fishing fly set on green velvet. Each
fly was different, each exquisite.
I
knew a bit about fly-fishing despite never having done it myself. We
live next to a pristine river in the wilds of Montana. It was such a
perfect place to cast a fly even Brad Pitt’s handsome face in the movie
“A River Runs Through It” paled in comparison to the beauty of the river
winding through our valley like molten copper in the twilight.
Clark
talked endlessly about his art: tying flies, the proper way to cast a
fly, what fly to use at what time of day at any given time of year. I
usually listened with only half an ear. The only part of fishing I cared
about was the eating part. But it dawned on me, as I bent over his
gossamer flies, that he never talked about that part.
“They’re beautiful, Clark.”
“I
have an extra rod and some old waders that will fit you…” he let the
rest dangle like a lure, hoping this little guppy would take a gulp.
I looked across the valley at the river, its steady flow eternal, silent and wondrous. “Why not?” I replied, and sealed my fate.
But
in Clark’s world you don’t just “go fishing.” First you must engage in
days of purposeful preparation, practice and planning. You cannot just
toss a fly into the water and hope for the best. No, you have to be
fully versed in all aspects of the hunt, to include among other rituals,
learning to tie your own flies. I learned to tie mayflies, damselflies,
plain, ol’ fly flies and nymphs; wet flies, dry flies, streamers and
imitators. Meticulous explanation and inspiration went into every lure.
Clark left no fly untied.
As
part of my initiation, (I’d probably received more hours of training
than a Navy SEAL) Clark showed me how to gently ease a delicate fish
mouth off a hook without damage. Indeed, he always fished with hooks
from which he’d carefully snipped the barbs away. For reasons unknown to
me, he held trout with the same degree of mythical regard Tibetans hold
the Dali Lama. “Plus, a barbless hook adds one more degree of
difficulty,” he explained, as though my very nascent presence endangered
every fish within miles.
Finally
the day came when I was deemed worthy. Weather-wise it was the finest
of days. Warm, late afternoon sunlight bathed the endless Montana sky in
heavenly autumn hues. Shimmering golden aspens lined the knoll above
the river, their leaves whispering ancient secrets as we edged our way
along the bank.
After
all the hours of patient tutelage, I was anxious to cast my first fly
into the quiet eddy where I was sure a fat trout waited. We chose places
across from each other where the water flowed around an island of rocks
midstream. I looked over and caught Clark smiling at me. I smiled back.
We shared a bond only fishing buddies know.
After
an hour or so, the soothing sound of water gurgling past my rubber
boots tugged at my attention. Despite the glory of the hunt, I was
getting bored and my shoulder and arm hurt from playing the pole and
fly. Noting the insects in the air and on the surface of the water, I’d
tried six different flies to no avail. Time of day? Too many clouds?
Maybe the fish didn’t like the smell of my waders.
A
trout doesn’t hit like a bass, it takes a more subtle approach. It
rolls on the surface, there’s a tug, and then another, and pretty soon
you realize there’s an actual fish on your line. The pencil-thin fly rod
bends dangerously close to the snapping point. The small reel at the
end of the pole takes forever to recapture the line, all the while the
trout tries vainly to get free. Clark saw me grinding my reel and came
sloshing over, waiting to see what the cat dragged in.
Soon
a shiny, wet thing slithered toward us, its eyes panicked, gills moving
rhythmically in and out. Clark had his net ready, but then hooked it
back on his belt and reached his hand into the cold water and brought
out the most beautiful rainbow trout I could ever imagine. Oh, I’d seen
pictures, but they were nothing compared to the rosy iridescence of a
trout still cold and flushed from battle. It stared at me with sad eyes,
as though life cut short was a huge disappointment.
My
next thought was of oil dancing on a hot iron skillet. But Clark had
other ideas. He eased the hook from its mouth, gazed at the fish for a
short moment, closed his eyes, and let it slide back into the cold,
clear river.
“Wha….!” I cried, not even finishing the word before choking on my lost dinner.
“You can’t keep them,” Clark said with a hint of disapproval.
“Why ever not? I thought we were trying to catch fish.”
“We
are, but not to keep them. You have to put them back,” he said, as
though this was so obvious only a moron would question it.
“Then
what in the world is the point?” I wanted to know, now angry at all the
time I’d wasted so I could throw perfectly good fish back in the river.
“One
point, my dear lady, is to keep an ancient, truly remarkable tradition
alive. Another, to work all your life so you can appreciate what it
means to be able to spend the day standing in this river and become one
with it.”
Clark waited for more protests, but I kept silent.
“But
the real point, dear lady, is so that when your final day on earth
arrives, every fish you’ve caught and sent back alive will return to
guide you down the river toward your place in heaven.”
Thanks to: http://oneworldrising.wordpress.com
Posted on April 4, 2013 by Visionkeeper
http://www.favim.comTying Flies
Written by: Raven
“Well, I finally did it,” the voice said.
I
looked up from my weeding. My neighbor Clark leaned against my garden
fence, his forearm crushing its cloak of fragrant sweet pea vines.
“What did you do now?” I asked, brushing the dirt off my hands.
“Quit. Retired for good.”
“Really,”
I deadpanned. Like we hadn’t talked about this before. Like this wasn’t
the major topic of every conversation we’d had for the past three
years.
“Yep. Told the boss yesterday.”
“Did you now,” I said, bending back to my dandelions to hide my smile.
For
as long as I’d known him, Clark had been dreaming of the day he could
wake up in the morning and think about nothing but trout. Rainbow trout,
cutthroat, bull trout… it didn’t matter, as long as he could catch
them. Clark and I have been neighbors forever and as far as I could tell
all he had ever cared about was fishing.
“So
what are you going to do with all your free time?” I asked, still
hiding a smile. When he didn’t answer right away, I looked up. He was
holding a thin wooden box, about a foot square, obviously hoping I would
get up off my crabby old knees and come look at it, so I did. His
gnarled fingers struggled with the small brass clip holding the lid.
The wood groaned sorrowfully as he opened the box. I peered inside. Each
cubbyhole held one tiny hand-tied fishing fly set on green velvet. Each
fly was different, each exquisite.
I
knew a bit about fly-fishing despite never having done it myself. We
live next to a pristine river in the wilds of Montana. It was such a
perfect place to cast a fly even Brad Pitt’s handsome face in the movie
“A River Runs Through It” paled in comparison to the beauty of the river
winding through our valley like molten copper in the twilight.
Clark
talked endlessly about his art: tying flies, the proper way to cast a
fly, what fly to use at what time of day at any given time of year. I
usually listened with only half an ear. The only part of fishing I cared
about was the eating part. But it dawned on me, as I bent over his
gossamer flies, that he never talked about that part.
“They’re beautiful, Clark.”
“I
have an extra rod and some old waders that will fit you…” he let the
rest dangle like a lure, hoping this little guppy would take a gulp.
I looked across the valley at the river, its steady flow eternal, silent and wondrous. “Why not?” I replied, and sealed my fate.
But
in Clark’s world you don’t just “go fishing.” First you must engage in
days of purposeful preparation, practice and planning. You cannot just
toss a fly into the water and hope for the best. No, you have to be
fully versed in all aspects of the hunt, to include among other rituals,
learning to tie your own flies. I learned to tie mayflies, damselflies,
plain, ol’ fly flies and nymphs; wet flies, dry flies, streamers and
imitators. Meticulous explanation and inspiration went into every lure.
Clark left no fly untied.
As
part of my initiation, (I’d probably received more hours of training
than a Navy SEAL) Clark showed me how to gently ease a delicate fish
mouth off a hook without damage. Indeed, he always fished with hooks
from which he’d carefully snipped the barbs away. For reasons unknown to
me, he held trout with the same degree of mythical regard Tibetans hold
the Dali Lama. “Plus, a barbless hook adds one more degree of
difficulty,” he explained, as though my very nascent presence endangered
every fish within miles.
Finally
the day came when I was deemed worthy. Weather-wise it was the finest
of days. Warm, late afternoon sunlight bathed the endless Montana sky in
heavenly autumn hues. Shimmering golden aspens lined the knoll above
the river, their leaves whispering ancient secrets as we edged our way
along the bank.
After
all the hours of patient tutelage, I was anxious to cast my first fly
into the quiet eddy where I was sure a fat trout waited. We chose places
across from each other where the water flowed around an island of rocks
midstream. I looked over and caught Clark smiling at me. I smiled back.
We shared a bond only fishing buddies know.
After
an hour or so, the soothing sound of water gurgling past my rubber
boots tugged at my attention. Despite the glory of the hunt, I was
getting bored and my shoulder and arm hurt from playing the pole and
fly. Noting the insects in the air and on the surface of the water, I’d
tried six different flies to no avail. Time of day? Too many clouds?
Maybe the fish didn’t like the smell of my waders.
A
trout doesn’t hit like a bass, it takes a more subtle approach. It
rolls on the surface, there’s a tug, and then another, and pretty soon
you realize there’s an actual fish on your line. The pencil-thin fly rod
bends dangerously close to the snapping point. The small reel at the
end of the pole takes forever to recapture the line, all the while the
trout tries vainly to get free. Clark saw me grinding my reel and came
sloshing over, waiting to see what the cat dragged in.
Soon
a shiny, wet thing slithered toward us, its eyes panicked, gills moving
rhythmically in and out. Clark had his net ready, but then hooked it
back on his belt and reached his hand into the cold water and brought
out the most beautiful rainbow trout I could ever imagine. Oh, I’d seen
pictures, but they were nothing compared to the rosy iridescence of a
trout still cold and flushed from battle. It stared at me with sad eyes,
as though life cut short was a huge disappointment.
My
next thought was of oil dancing on a hot iron skillet. But Clark had
other ideas. He eased the hook from its mouth, gazed at the fish for a
short moment, closed his eyes, and let it slide back into the cold,
clear river.
“Wha….!” I cried, not even finishing the word before choking on my lost dinner.
“You can’t keep them,” Clark said with a hint of disapproval.
“Why ever not? I thought we were trying to catch fish.”
“We
are, but not to keep them. You have to put them back,” he said, as
though this was so obvious only a moron would question it.
“Then
what in the world is the point?” I wanted to know, now angry at all the
time I’d wasted so I could throw perfectly good fish back in the river.
“One
point, my dear lady, is to keep an ancient, truly remarkable tradition
alive. Another, to work all your life so you can appreciate what it
means to be able to spend the day standing in this river and become one
with it.”
Clark waited for more protests, but I kept silent.
“But
the real point, dear lady, is so that when your final day on earth
arrives, every fish you’ve caught and sent back alive will return to
guide you down the river toward your place in heaven.”
Thanks to: http://oneworldrising.wordpress.com
